Very early morning, on a calm sea and under a starry sky. A light on the eastern horizon shows that day is about to break, yet it is still night. The air is soft and moist.—Is it the summer of the North, or the winter of a warm climate? Nothing in sight on any side, no land, no light, no sail, no indication of any place—just a marine solitude in ideal weather and in the mystery of the wavering dawn.

Like a leviathan which conceals itself in order to surprise, the big iron-clad advances silently with determined slowness, its engines barely revolving.

It has just covered five thousand miles almost without pausing to breathe, constantly making forty-eight turns of the screw to a minute, accomplishing without stopping and without damage of any sort, and without much wear and tear of its substantial machinery, the longest journey, at the highest rate of sustained speed, that a monster of its size has ever undertaken, thus defeating in this important test ships reputed to be faster, and which at first sight might be thought superior in speed.

This morning it has arrived at the end of its journey, it is about to reach a part of the world whose name but yesterday was unknown, but toward which the eyes of Europe are now turning. This sea, where the morning light is calmly breaking, is the Yellow Sea, it is the gulf of Petchili, from which one reaches Pekin. An immense fighting squadron must already be assembled very near us, although as yet nothing indicates its vicinity.

We have been two or three days crossing this Yellow Sea in beautiful September weather. Yesterday and the day before, junks with sails of matting have crossed our route, on their way to Corea; shores and islands more or less distant have appeared, but at the present moment the entire circle of the horizon is empty.

Since midnight we have been moving slowly, in order that our expected arrival in the midst of this fleet of ships—which is to be attended with obligatory military pomp—should not take place at too early an hour.

Five o'clock. Out of the semi-obscurity sounds the music of the reveille, the gay trumpeting, which each morning arouses the sailors. It is earlier than usual, so that there may be ample time to perform the toilet of the iron-clad, which has lost some of its freshness during forty-five days at sea. We still see nothing but empty space, and yet the lookout, from his post aloft, reports black smoke on the horizon. This small cloud of coal smoke, which from below looks like nothing, betokens a formidable presence; it is produced by great steel ships, it is the breath of this unprecedented squadron which we are about to join.

Before the ship's toilet comes that of the crew. Barefooted and bare-chested, the sailors splash in the water in the dawning light. In spite of continual hard work, they are no more tired than the ship that carries them. The Redoutable is, of all the ships that departed so suddenly, the only one which has had neither death nor sickness on board, even in crossing the Red Sea.

Now the sun has risen clear above the horizon, a yellow disk which slowly climbs upward from behind the quiet waters. For us, who have just left equatorial regions, this rising, luminous as it is, has I know not what of melancholy and of dulness, which savors of autumn and a northern climate. Really in two or three days the sun has changed. Now it no longer burns, it is no longer dangerous, we cease to fear it.

In front of us, from out the cloud of coal smoke, far-off objects begin to emerge, perceptible only to the eye of the mariner; a forest of spears, one should say, planted away off at the end of space, almost beyond the range of vision. We know what they are,—the giant chimneys, the heavy fighting masts, the terrible paraphernalia of warfare, which, with the smoke, reveal from afar the modern squadron. When our morning cleaning is over, when everything has been washed with buckets of sea water, the Redoutable increases her speed to the average of eleven and a half knots an hour, which she has maintained since her departure from France. And while the sailors are busy making the brass and copper shine, she begins again to trace her deep furrow through the tranquil waters.

Objects on the smoky horizon line begin to stand forth and take shape. Below the innumerable masts, masses of every form and color are distinguishable. These are the ships themselves. Between the calm water and the pale sky lies the whole terrible company, an assemblage of strange monsters, some white and yellow, others white and black, others the color of slime or of fog, in order to make them less easily distinguishable. Their backs are humped and their sides half submerged and hidden like big uneasy turtles. Their structures vary according to the conceptions of different persons in regard to engines of destruction, but all alike breathe forth horrible coal smoke, which dulls the morning light.

No more of the coast of China is visible than if we were a thousand leagues away or than if it did not exist. Yet we are close to Taku, the meeting-place toward which for so many days our minds have been bent. It is China, close by although invisible, which attracts by its nearness this herd of beasts of prey, and which keeps them as immovable as fallow deer at bay, at this precise point on the seas, until some one speaks the word.

The water, here where it is less deep, has lost its beautiful blue, to which we have so long been accustomed, and has become troubled and yellow, and the sky, although cloudless, is decidedly melancholy. Our first impression of this whole scene, of which we shall undoubtedly for a long time form a part, is one of sadness.

But now as we draw nearer and the sun rises there is a change, and the beautiful shining iron-clads with their many-colored flags begin to stand out. It is indeed a remarkable squadron that here represents Europe,—Europe armed against gloomy old China. It occupies an infinite amount of space, the whole horizon seems crowded with ships, and small boats—little steam tugs—hurry like busy people among the big motionless vessels.

Now cannon on all sides begin a military welcome for our admiral, beneath the heavy curtain of black smoke; the gay light smoke from powder blossoms like sheaves and goes off in white masses, while up and down the iron masts the tricolor rises and falls in our honor. Everywhere trumpets sound, foreign bands play our Marseillaise,—one is more or less intoxicated with this ceremonial, always the same yet always superb, which here borrows an unaccustomed magnificence on account of the display of the fleet.

And now the sun is at last awake and shining, adding to the day of our arrival a last illusion of midsummer heat, in this country of extreme seasons; in two months' time it will begin to freeze up for a long winter.

When evening comes, our eyes, which will weary of it soon enough, are feasted upon a grand fairy-like spectacle, given for us by the squadron. Suddenly electric lights appear on all sides, white, or green, or red, twinkling and sparkling in a dazzling manner; the big ships, by means of a play of lights, converse with one another, and the water reflects thousands of signals, thousands of lights, while the rockets race for the horizon or pass through the sky like delirious comets. One forgets all that breeds death and destruction in this phantasmagoria, and for the moment feels oneself in the midst of a great city, with towers, minarets, palaces, improvised in this part of the world especially for this extravagant nocturnal celebration.

It is only the next day and yet everything is different. A breeze came up in the morning,—hardly a breeze, just enough to spread over the sea big vague plumes of smoke. Already furrows are being made in this open and not very deep roadstead, and the small boats, continually going and coming, bob up and down bathed in spray.

A ship with the German colors appears upon the horizon just as we appeared yesterday; it is immediately recognized as the Herta, bringing Field-Marshal von Waldersee, the last one of the military commanders expected at this meeting-place of the Allies. The salutes that yesterday were for us, begin anew for him, the whole magnificent ceremony is repeated. Again the cannon give forth clouds of smoke, mingling tufts of white with the denser variety, and the national air of Germany is taken up by all the bands, and borne on the rising wind.

The wind whistles stronger, stronger and colder; a bad autumn wind, that plays about the whalers and the tugs, which yesterday circulated readily among the various groups of the squadron.

It presages difficult days for us, for in this uncertain harbor, which in an hour's time becomes dangerous, we shall have to land thousands of soldiers sent from France and thousands of tons of war supplies. Many people and many things must be moved over this rough water, in barges or in small boats, in the cold and even in the night, and must be taken to Taku across the river's changing bar.

To organize this long and perilous undertaking is to be our task—that of the marines—during the first few months, an austere, exhausting, and obscure rÔle without apparent glory.